I'm rinsing
a lightly used muffin tin
when it dawns on me:
I don't miss
the newly absent
cabinet door
that for six years
hung next to the oven.
It had been rigged
twice before
once by the tenant prior
but the last two screws
I drove through its flimsy panels
while late for medication
on Christmas Eve
split the remainder
sealing its dumpster destination.
Unfastening it from the hinges
I straightened the pots
and pans inside to make them
more presentable
to any potential guests.
At peace with this latest state
I continue to wash the dishes.
What's a cabinet
but a shelf with a door?
Since I don't have television
I can better hear the sounds:
brick settling;
rusty water gurgling
through inefficient baseboard;
the aloes on the windowsill
slurping down their pints.
No one in Bridgeton
knows why I'm in Bridgeton
least of all myself.
Out of boredom
I read my prescription's description.
It claims to contain a chemical
that suppresses the portion
of the brain that triggers coughing.
What other parts
can scientists pinpoint
and subdue?
A Yuletide airplane
glistens through my dusty window
and I wonder when
the overdue meteor
will arrive to deliver mankind.
Hallelujah.
Don't let the textbooks
and strategists fool you:
The best place to be
is backed into a corner.
Currently reading:
"Anthem" by Ayn Rand.
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